Spinning a filly tale, of horses and hitches | MARK HUGHES COBB

My dad grew up on what was a not-farm, by the time his sons came around, in Kennedy. Directions: Go nowhere, turn, keep going.

Dad talked to us about farm life, tales tall and wide, largely of the walking-to-school-uphill both ways variety, intended to not only stress the values of clean hard work, but also to make dang sure none of us entertained even the slightest hay-slip of a notion about returning to the romance of the plantation.

Perhaps you're picturing "Gone With the Wind," as I chose to not again repeat the word that rhymes with arm (as in Dad never went to a gym, but even late in life bore ropey muscle), alarm (as in the rooster, though seems to me it could have been called crow, as that's how it greeted dawn, sometimes that of a much-earlier time zone), harm (as in what could happen given rusted-out, variously-bladed, chunky-wheeled vehicles we loved to tumble around, as if we knew what tetanus shots did), grievous bodily harm (as in Dad's feet from being stepped on by, depending on who was spinning the yarn, a rambunctious donkey, woman in spiked heels, or ambling horse), and charm (as in what farming seemed rather alarmingly free from, except of course for feasts, wide-open fields overgrown and full of hidden traps, er, treasures, Grandma Evy herself, and the occasional wild yet harmless creature, because any respectable snake would hide from onrushing boys in rolled-up jeans and Keds).

Not a "GWTW" manor nor costumed barbecue with Tarletons in sight. More like "Tobacco Road," though not nearly as sleazy, violent or fun.

Because it was no longer a working farm, there were no working animals. An occasional chicken might saunter from nearby, posing for a joke, or one of those uncles — Dad's older half-siblings were plentiful, cut from the same cloth, something well-used, comfortingly loose, colorful and warm — might show us a still-active farm, with an actual mule who, despite rumor and reputation, didn't kick, but basically just stood, mulishly, smelling like dust and hay, which seemed to be its job, and a wide-open dirt patch pecked by yardbirds, one of which met his timely (for dinner) demise by virtue of a quick neck grab and spin that would be banned from the WWE.

My friends Rachel and John Prosser lived on a partially still-functioning farm at the fringes of Montgomery, with a couple of horses and random goats making fragrant the outdoors, which seemed, again, to be their chief function.

And I dated a woman in high school who owned a horse, stabled near Woodland Forrest. We rode together bareback, and minds out of the gutter, that means I didn't trust myself (She didn't trust me) to ride alone astride this massive bay. Fair enough, it was kind of romantic, until the beast trotted down an unyielding rocky road, where I learned why riders slather leathery saddles with tender affection, hours of polish, and excess padding.

Two of my former schools were nicknamed Raiders and Knights. Who was my third-favorite fictional hero? Arthur and his kaaaa-niggihts. Following in the top, gunslingers, the justice kind, not the real-life-historical yellow-bellied shoot you in the neck and run type. What weapon have I most used? A sword. On stage.

Yet here I was, wrapping my arms around a curly-dark-haired beauty, and I mean the girlfriend, rather than leap astride and pursue a lonely destiny as an adventurer, or at least summer replacement player at Medieval Times.

Some dreams you've got to follow up. Amy Trout grew from a small farm in Virginia, with dairy goats and draft horses. Fast-forward after a degree in animal science, and years teaching agriculture, and thereby hangs a tale.

"When I came to Budweiser, I hadn't touched a horse in years," Trout said, in a phone interview timed to this week's Tuscaloosa appearances by a hitch of the famous Clydesdales draft horses. Living paycheck to paycheck as many underpaid teachers — and writers, and artists, and fill in the blank if you're not of the oligarchy — must, she sent resumes to zoos, until she saw a tour-guide posting from St. Louis. Trout got that job within a week. Despite her farm and educational background, she still had loads to learn.

"There's the right way, the wrong way, and the Budweiser way," she said, laughing. Work horses are still a thing in less-mechanized countries, but here they're kept mainly for show and breeding. Trout spent eight years traveling with hitches — three in the U.S., including 10 horses each, with only eight per parade; the other two are utility players, ready to step up in case of illness, or someone suffering a case of the Mondays — but for the past decade has managed Clydesdales at Warm Springs Ranch, in Boonville, Missouri, a breeding and training facility, where her daily routine may range from ultrasound tests to running a manure spreader.

The Scotland-derived animals are bred for size and appearance, then tested for strength and temperament.

"They're athletes," Trout said. "Just because you're 7 feet tall, that doesn't mean you're gonna play in the NBA."

Babies start training at six months, learning "social graces," as their job is no longer hauling kegs from town to town, but performing. When they're four, they begin getting hooked up with a harness, though the geldings — males who've been castrated — can continue growing until seven or eight.

Those who don't fit a hitch stay on ranches, and might shoot Super Bowl commercials. If their coloration doesn't fit the brand? "Mounted police units all across the country are waiting in line to get our Clydesdales," she said.

More:Mane event: Budweiser Clydesdales to visit Tuscaloosa next week

The team that has traveled to Tuscaloosa rolled in on three 50-foot tractor-trailers, air-conditioned with padded flooring, and monitors so drivers and handlers can keep an eye out.

"They'll stop for a break every couple of hours," because travel can stress some out, Trout said. At a new location, the first day is a prep or rest day.

"It gives the horses a chance to kind of unwind from the road trip, get a hair cut, a bath," she said.

The store-based events this week allow folks to get up close with a Clydesdale. The team will pick specific animals, although Trout said all the animals are calm, used to crowds, raised to be gregarious and trustworthy.

"We always refer to them as the gentle giants," said Patrick Barry of Byrne PR, which works with the Clydesdales. "They're raised around people, the public, within days of being born. They're just incredibly friendly."

Trout recalled a day at Grant's Farm when kids with disabilities were visiting, including a girl using a wheelchair, the electric kind operated by a joystick. One Clydesdale came up, put its head over a railing, and started mouthing the joystick, rocking the girl gently back and forth. Despite the size of the creature looming over her, the delighted child burst into laughter. Her teachers were stunned. That girl was verbally non-responsive, they said. It was the most joyous sound they'd ever heard from her.

As taught in "Ben-Hur," placement matters, for an eight-team hitch. The pair closest to the wagon are big-wheel horses; the most muscular, hauling the bulk of the weight. Next up is the body team, picking up slack. In front of that, the swing team pulls little weight, but is crucial for keeping on track, especially with turns. The paired lead team consists of the smallest and fastest, the most showy.

"They have the most action," Trout said. "They lift their legs up high, heads up high. They're so critical, because they have to be fearless."

Budweiser encourages folks to watch the beginning and end of Saturday's 2-4 p.m. parade, beginning at the Tuscaloosa County Courthouse and ending near Government Plaza, the hooking and unhooking process.

"I've seen it I don't know, hundreds of times, but it never gets old," Barry said. "When those semis turn the corner, the gates open and the wagons come out, it's just a special moment.

"A lot of times, it's the first time a person's seen a horse up close."

As it's not my first rodeo, I can say: Up close, they're much more than you'd expect. All charm, no alarm.

Reach Tusk Editor Mark Hughes Cobb at mark.cobb@tuscaloosanews.com, or call 205-722-0201.

This article originally appeared on The Tuscaloosa News: How the world famous Budweiser Clydesdales are bred and trained